


You Astound Me (and I Can't Get Enough)

by Thyme_Basalt



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anxiety Attacks, Beachrat, Bed and breakfast au, Bittersweet, Drabble Collection, Drunken Confessions, Explicit Language, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Rimming?, Jamie leave your sexy neighbor alone, Junkers in dresses, Junkfish AU, M/M, MARITAL BLISS, Masturbation, Neighbor au, Painful Sex, Past Relationship(s), Renaissance Faire AU, Roadhog's Thicc Ass, Roadhog's smell, Talon Rat, Weekly prompts, What's Best for You AU, catcalling, or not because he's into it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-04-04 05:54:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14013624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thyme_Basalt/pseuds/Thyme_Basalt
Summary: My fic where I'll be putting my Discord drabbles forGigi's Weekly Roadrat Assignments!! SFW to NSFW, I'll update tags as I go.Prompt Topics1. Roadhog's Ass Appreciation- Neighbor AU2. Junkrat casually rubbing one out- Beachrat College AU3. Drunken Confessions- Canon Timeline4. Roadhog's Smell- What's Best for You-niverse (Talon AU)5. Junkers in Dresses- Bed & Breakfast AU6. Fixed It- Canon Timeline7. Sweet Tooth- Junkfish AU8. Bad Luck- Renaissance Faire AU





	1. Good Neighbor

Jamison knew not to yell at strangers’ asses. It wasn't polite. He'd been reprimanded in the past. But Mako Rutledge wasn't a stranger, right? He'd lived in the little home across the street from Jamie's duplex for two years now. Mako was a man of few words but Jamie had spoken at him plenty of times. Surely they were beyond strangers now. And wasn’t Mako practically asking for a comment as he bent over his meticulously tended flowerbed, his overalls riding low on his hips? His round ass flaunting itself over there by just peeking out of the top of his pants, with all its squeezable promise? Most of the time Mako wore baggy pants or overalls while toiling away in the yard. Jamie theorized he didn’t want all the neighbors walking by to fall flat on their faces, overcome with lust, so he kept that ripe and delicious ass hidden away. But Jamison knew better. He knew there was more to that ass than met the eye.

One Sunday morning while sitting on his front porch sipping cold coffee, Jamison witnessed Mako’s precious tricolor pig charge out of the back gate towards the road. A moment later, a frazzled Mako barrelled after her in just a tight pair of briefs; his big belly, hairy tits and snug package bouncing for the whole world to see. Catching up to the wily pig, he gave her a light slap on the rump, sending her back to the yard. As his feet padded up to the sidewalk, he froze, gaze rising to meet with Jamison’s. 

Jamison knew he said words. It wasn’t like him to ever run out of words. The phrase that spilled out of his mouth was some mix up of “good morning, Mr. Rutledge” that came out like “good Rutledge.” 

A small smile crept up Mako’s lips and he turned and bent over to pick up his newspaper, revealing The Holy Grail of big, meaty mancheeks, gripped tightly in stretchy red fabric. The most perfect, biteable hunk of man-buttocks Jamison Fawkes had ever had the privilege of laying his prying eyes on. Jamison slowly rose up from his shitty porch chair, tilting his sunglasses down to gawk at him through the morning light.

Mr. Mako Rutledge just tapped the newspaper to his head in greeting, then slowly sashayed back towards his door, ever the slightest sway to his hips.

“LET ME EAT YOUR ASS!” Jamison flung his hands over his mouth in a fruitless attempt to catch his words.

Mako stopped and cocked a thick eyebrow at him, scruffy jaw pulled into a scowl. An eternity passed without a word; two cars sped by, a family walked passed, a dog barked in the distance, the planet slowly turned on its axis. 

But then, Mako’s face softened and he cupped his hands around his mouth. “Make me breakfast first.” 

He held the door open with his hip as Jamison sprinted across the road, almost getting struck by a car on the way.

“You know I would have told your friends you died running across the street to eat out an old man’s ass?” Mako said as a breathless Jamie skidded to a halt in front of him.

“They woulda said ‘Jamison Fawkes: died pursuing what he loved the most',” Jamie beamed up at his neighbor.

Mako rolled his eyes and let the young man hurry him through the threshold, slamming the door behind them.


	2. Roadtrip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2\. Junkrat casually rubbing one out- Beachrat College AU

The hatchback lurches over a pothole, startling Mako back into the waking world. He blinks into the bright sun, trying to block it with his thick arm.

“Sorry, mate,” Jamie chirps from the driver’s seat. “Ya got another two hours or so till we switch.”

Jamie's bathed in the sunlight, the rays reddening his right bicep as his fingers tap along the window. He's in full beach mode already, despite the fact that they have another 4 hours until they reach their destination. He’s wearing blocky sunglasses, a fake sharktooth necklace, and swim trunks. His uneven blond hair is pulled back in a ponytail, shorter strands falling in his face. Mako’s surprised he hasn’t inflated the floaty wings for his arms yet.

Mako sighs and sinks down in his seat, pulling his floppy-brimmed hat over his eyes. Another hour of sleep would be nice. He’s going to need all he can get being on vacation with his overly active roommate. Supposedly Jamie’s got a rich aunt who owns a place in Byron Bay and he swears up and down that the drive will be worth it. Mako starts to drift off, practically feeling the warm sand under his fingers. He can see himself under an umbrella, smiling out at the ocean as his roommate falls off the surfboard for the twentieth time. The sound of gulls crying, the crash of the ocean, slap of Jamie’s hand against his cock-

Mako’s eyes peel open. All those beachy sounds fade fast, but the gentle fapping sound continues. Mako's head is leaning against the window, so it’s not immediately apparent to Jamie that he’s woken up. He catches Jamie’s reflection in the glass. Yep, that’s definitely Jamie’s long, thin cock popped out of his swim trunks and clutched between his flesh fingers. He’s pumping it as he’s driving along, off hand casually trying to keep the vehicle steady on the top of the steering wheel. Mako doesn’t know if he should move or just pretend to be dead. It can’t take too much longer but the farther along Jamie gets, the longer he blinks his eyes in idiotic, dangerous bliss.

It’s then that Mako notices Jamie stealing glances over at him. The way his vision darts over, it’s clear he’s not checking if Mako's awake. Nope, he’s looking *at* Mako while he pleasures himself at the same time he's operating the moving vehicle. His hand pumps rapidly, thumb smearing precum down from the head, breath shallow. His tongue pokes out from the corner of his mouth, the tip flicking in random movements and he has to take his only hand off the wheel to wipe drool running down the side of his mouth.

“What are you doing.” Mako says flatly, not moving his head.

A mix between a yelp and a moan trips out of Jamie’s mouth and he’s surprised into jizzing all over his hand and slick swim trunks. His metal hand flails back to wheel and the car swerves. Thank god there are no other cars on the road with them.

“Whoopsie,” Jamie giggles, righting the car back into its lane. “Got a little bored.”

“So you decided you wanted to get us killed while you got your rocks off?”

“Oh don't pretend to be all high-and-mighty Mr. Never Wanked While Driving.”

Mako rolls his eyes, slapping away Jamie's cum-covered hand as he tries to wipe it on him.

“You were looking at me.” Mako's voice is a low purr.

Jamie blinks, bites his lip and decides it isn’t worth lying about.

“Ya got me. I just… love the way the seat belt accentuates yer tits. Ya know… the way it goes between 'em? Caught my eye is all.”

Mako glances down at his chest and he supposes he could see why Jamie was turned on by it. His tits do look nice. He pushes them together and rests his head back on the window, just to tease his jizz-covered asshole of a roommate, who still has to finish his leg of the drive.


	3. Every Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The theme for Gigi's Weekly Drabble was Drunken Confessions!
> 
> After Junkrat is determined to get Roadhog drunk, Hog reveals a sentiment he's been holding onto.

It starts as a joke. The two Junkers are tipsy and incognito in a Viennese bar when Junkrat says he has never seen Hog actually drunk. Like, drunk-drunk, falling over and barfing drunk. When Hog’s only response is a half-hearted shrug and snort, Rat makes it his goal to get Hog as sloshed as physically possible. 

It becomes a spectacle the entire bar gets invested in (the football game that had just finished was a bit of a blowout, so the fans are looking for something to take their mind off it). They practically buy out the little hole-in-the-wall pub, pouring all sorts of liquor down Hog’s throat. Rat is utterly delighted to see Roadhog be the center of attention for once, people marveling at his size and his strength and his ability to remain standing on two legs despite enough liquor to wipe out the entire bar.

Two people ask Junkrat if Roadhog is his dad, two different people ask if they’re in Vienna for a kink convention. Rat says yes to both, just to cause the most confusion. Roadhog gets asked all sorts of questions he’s sick of hearing, but his advanced state of inebriation makes him a little more willing to put up with them. A few ask if he has gigantism, more ask if the radiation did this to him and countless others ask if he could pick them up. By the end of the night, he’s lifted all of the women and about three quarters of the men.

The alcohol hits Roadhog rather suddenly. Junkrat leans against his arm, chin digging into his shoulder and Hog rocks off balance. He stumbles back, bracing himself against the bar with a thud. The loud sound temporarily silences the place, but once they realize Hog is visibly drunk, they break into cheers and applause, clapping him and Junkrat on the back like they’ve just finished some sort of marathon. They stay for a couple more shots, but that seems to do Hog in. 

Turns out, Hog being drunk is a little alarming than Rat expected. When Hog goes down, there’s no way Rat is getting him back up on his own. Rat knows they need to leave when Hog falls for the first time in the bar and a dozen people have to help him up. With the good will and blessings of the other patrons, they point the duo in the direction of their hostel and wave goodnight. Hog staggers his way down the street, heavy arm tossed over his companion’s shoulders, using the buildings around him to steady himself. Rat’s thankful they’re only a few blocks away, or else he may have never been able to navigate them home. 

Hostels are a recent discovery of Rat’s, and they provide lower cost, under-the-radar boarding when they’re in a crunch for time and can’t find anywhere else to crash. This particular hostel insisted on a 30 or under policy, but a stack of cash and some not-so-subtle threats convinced them to let in the clearly-over-30 exception.

Shooting a glare at the bohemian front desk attendant, Rat urges Hog down the hallway to their room. The only beds that were available when they dumped their belongings off earlier were two in a six-person room. They’d make due but Roadhog nearly strangled Junkrat when he saw the twin bed he’d be cursed to sleep in for the night.

Rat flips on the light in their room, illuminating two people trying to sleep at 3am. Their lumpy forms toss and groan at the disturbance. 

“Sorry, sorry!” Junkrat says way too loud for 3am. “Just tryin’ to get my mate situated.”

An agitated grumble comes from the roommate, but he seems too concerned with keeping his blanket over his head to do anything about it. Junkrat leads Hog over to their bunk and pushes his shoulders to get him to sit. 

“Okay, love, sit down real slow. You’re not gonna be able to fit your head under, so just lean forward while I take off your boots.”

Rat fights his own drunkenness as he bends over and unties Hog’s boots. Above him, Roadhog sways back and forth and Rat places a hand on his chest to steady him.

“You remind me…” Hog hiccups and breaks off into a trailing laugh.

“Remind you of what?” Rat loosens the ties and wiggles Hog’s foot out.

“Him…” Hog says, his deep voice going strangely strained.

“Him?” Rat furrows his brow and studies Hog with uncertainty. “Who?”

“Just… him.” Hog says again, firmly. “Not when you’re doing this-” He pokes Rat’s furrowed brow. “Or this-” He then sticks his thumbs in either side of Rat’s mouth and drags the corners up to make the cartoonish grin on his partner’s face.

“Then how do I look like...him?” Rat says, gnawing on one of Hog’s thumbs as he chucks the second boot across the floor.

“When ya make the face…”

“What face?” Rat’s hands move up to unbutton Hog’s overalls and slide them to the ground.

“Shut up and turn off the lights!”

“Hush, ya wanker! He’s talking about his past and if you fuck this up I will shit in your shower kit!”

That quiets the man at least for a few more minutes.

“Sorry, Hog,” Rat says, turning back. “As you were sayin’ before that rude-”

Thick arms wrap around his waist and Hog rolls back onto the tiny bed with Junkrat on top of him. A pleasure rolls through Rat’s body as Hog clumsily cups Rat’s crotch through his pants. Rat lets out a squeal but lets Hog keep rubbing him, eyes rolling back and mouth falling open. He catches his hands on Hog’s chest.

“A face like that…” Hog says, releasing his crotch and settling his hands on Rat’s narrow hips. “‘specially when yer sitting pretty on my cock.”

“‘M not pretty,” Rat says. He slides back to press his ass over Hog’s cock. It’s still soft but it stirs with interest. “Was he?”

“When he wanted…” Hog mutters. “Kinda like you.” 

They grind gently together for a few moments, then Rat leans his head out from under the bunk and calls to their roommate.

“Okay, go ahead and turn off the light for us, thank you much.”

When the grumbling, sleep-deprived tourist drags himself out bed to hit the light for them, Rat leans forward, taking Hog’s cheeks in his hands.

“Who was he?” Rat’s voice is as quiet and respectful as it can possibly get. He doesn’t want to push Hog on this, but this may be the only time the man would ever open up about his past.

“No one…” Hog can’t keep his foggy eyes focused on Junkrat’s. “Just… a man...” 

“Do you miss him?”

Hog’s eyes close and his alcohol stenched breath deepens as his drunken sleep takes him. Moments like that with Hog are fleeting and Junkrat knows he can never expect them to last for long. Rat rests his head on Hog’s chest, draped over him like a man-sized heated blanket, letting his debauchery take him towards sleep.

“Every day…” The words out of Hog are so soft and ephemeral that Junkrat almost misses them. He knows he doesn’t need to mar the air with his own words and he just curls a little tighter against Hog’s belly until sleep comes for them both.


	4. Like Calloused Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While getting used to life with Talon, Junkrat stumbles upon an item of his past he hadn't expected to find.

Rat has nothing of Hog’s. Nothing Hog ever wore or owned or toiled on with his own oversized hands. Rat was dropped into Talon HQ with barely even his life to cling onto. Of course they weren’t going to save blood-splattered momentos for him to sniff and grind up against in the middle of the night when he can barely form a coherent thought in his drugged up, pathetic state.

He’s been on his feet and on the mend for a few weeks, getting adjusted to his new quarters in HQ, the shallow semblance of a Junker’s scrapyard carved into the cold, imposing building. He’s tearing through the scrap, digging for proper panel to secure a new sleep apnea machine for a theoretical Roadhog who may or may not ever materialize in his life again.

Sombra’s apparently having a fuck-off day herself, as she sits behind the wheel, pretending to steer the dusty, broken down hovertruck.

“Find it yet?” She asks unhelpfully for the fifth time.

“Nah, ask me one more and I’ll make you need a sleep apnea machine.”

She throws her hands up in a mocking “not gonna mess with you” fashion.

“Ooo, a freezer!” Rat chirps, studying the box pushed away in the corner. “I heard that if ya get in one of these and close it, it’ll lock you in.”

“Wanna find out?” Sombra says, perking up at the opportunity.

“Hell yeah!” Rat flings open the lid to the chest freezer and is about to jump in when he stops. “The fuck is this?” He asks, bending over and heaving out a black duffle bag. “This where you’re hiding all the bodies, Sombra?”

Rat drops the bag in front of her, dropping to his knees and running his hand along the material.

“Mierda… that must’ve gotten thrown in there while I was moving shit in here for you.”

Rat narrows his eyes at her, then slowly unzips the bag. It hits him in a wash of memories and sensations, like a strike across his face and calloused fingers cupping his chin. The smell of him, Roadhog, Mako Rutledge clings to nearly every item in the bag. Rat digs out the clothing on top, an enormous undershirt. It’s stretched in the belly, greasy stains dotting the front. He turns it over in his hands to see the backside, bearing claw marks and a small bloodstain from the last time they ever fucked. It was the morning of the accident. They had been arguing about something utterly meaningless and the rough bout of sex up against the hotel wall was a way to make up without actually needing to use their words.

Unbidden thoughts and memories push their way to the front of his consciousness. Was there any way that tension between them could have lead to the botched heist? To their breakdown in communication? To their fate through the shattered florist window?

Somewhere, could be a hundred thousand miles away, Sombra’s talking. She’s explaining that she slipped in and picked up their items before it could be confiscated by Genevan police, but she hadn’t thought to mention it because it’s just clothes and tourism brochures and shit like that. He can’t hear her, he doesn’t want to.

He brings the shirt up to his nose and inhales. A little musty from storage but he’s still there. Roadhog’s musk is unable to be faked or remade. Sweat, first and foremost. Rat’s nose buries into the pit that he’s certain hasn’t been washed since the last time he pushed his nose into the man’s armpit. His sweat isn’t overly sweet or rancid. It’s savory and deep, and that alone causes Rat’s cock to stir with trained interest. The scent of ancient leather, motor oil and acrid chemicals lingers on the fabric as well. He remember Hog’s lungs nearly going out as he pounded Rat through his orgasm. Rat remembers the yellow Hogdrogen container jammed into the filter of his mask, the smoke filling the air, throwing the mask on the ground and tasting the chemicals on his lips as he barely gave Hog the chance to breath.

There’s one component of Hog’s scent that he can’t place at first. It’s a sharper mix of dirt, sweat and burnt hair. He never noticed it as a part of Hog’s, but as he holds the shirt to his face, he realizes it’s just as much a part of Hog’s scent as the mask or the Hogdrogen or the bike. It’s his own scent. He probably doesn’t smell like this anymore, probably smells more like hospital bedsheets, string cheese and depression. But there’s no changing the fact that his smell is right there wrapped up in Hog’s.

Rat’s eyes are wide and wet as he tears them away from the bag, still bulging with everything else from their room. Something settles in his stomach, some ten storey mess of emotions he despises. They come with too many layers to be easily identified as “sorrow” or “anger.” There isn’t a single nice neat word to wrap up nostalgia meets regret with a side helping self-loathing and self-blame, a good dash of salt, all tied up with a big bow of horniness.

“Do you want me to leave you to wallow or...?” Sombra asks cautiously.

“I'll get some air,” he forces a smile, throwing the shirt back into the bag and pitching it into the freezer again. It shuts with a resounding thud.

Sombra pulls open her screens and studies them for a moment before an idea hits her.

“From my maps, it looks like Gabe’s in the south gym. We can hack his music. Make him listen to nightcore or bluegrass.” She smirks, 100 tracks of amped up anime bullshit and twanging banjos already queued up.

Junkrat nods, his telltale grin creeping back onto his face. “Do ghosts even need to work out?”

“He had a juicy ass at some point,” Sombra shrugs, holding the door for him. “What else would you do if you had a juicy ass but you lost it?”

“Right, right,” Junkrat nods along with her, his gait picking up as he strides out the door. “I’d probably be so pissed off that I’d make my own multinational terrorist organization... put a picture of my old ass on the flag so everyone would know.”

Sombra’s flicking through an album labeled “Gabe’s old ass” and Junkrat’s cackle echoes through the hallways. For now, he’s content to forget the past and push away the uncertain future.


	5. Strawberry Dress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The drabble topic is Junkers in dresses and I immediately thought of [this adorable art](http://hattedhedgehog.tumblr.com/post/157311444257/junkrat-in-dresses-because-i-want-him-to-feel) by Hattie!

Mako plants the ladder into the soft earth, pressing down to secure it in place. He drops his handful of nails into his pocket and hooks his hammer on his belt, then carefully steps his way up to the second rung. Bolts of wood bend across the tree face, some of them sticking out dangerously. Each piece of wood gets new nails pounded into them, all the way up to the bottom of the treehouse. He wants to crawl inside once he’s high enough on the ladder to peer into the little shack, with its little nooks and crannies.

“Mako!” Jamie’s shrill voice carries up from the yard. “Be careful! Your balance is too shite to be climbing around like a fuckin’ kid!”

Mako grips the top of the ladder with a sigh. “You sneaking up on me is the most dangerous part.” He doesn’t turn around to face his partner, continuing to pound nails into the makeshift ladder up the tree.

“The Mabels are here. Got ‘em all settled in to the Kingfisher Room. They were grateful ‘cause Deirdre’s hip isn’t what it used ta be, worse than when they stayed a few months back.”

Mako grunts quietly in understanding, a little saddened to hear that about the bed and breakfast’s most loyal customers.

“Got dinner a’cookin’!” Jamie continues, his voice a little closer to the bottom of the ladder. “The Mabels and the Perchons will be joinin’ us… ya almost done up there?”

“A minute,” Hog says, last nail between his lips as he holds the final wooden rung in place against the tree.

“I just worry about you, ya know? Big guy like you shouldn’t be balancing on a fucking ladder. I know I got a fake leg, which makes me useless at it too, but maybe ask one of our guests to help? Plenty of B&B guests expect to be asked to do a little work helpin’ out.”

He’s talking a lot, Mako notes. More than usual. Something has to be up.

He tests each secured rung on his way back down, tugging them to make sure they can withstand his weight. When he lands at the bottom and turns to face his partner, he knows immediately why Jamie wouldn’t leave him alone.

Jamie’s wearing a blue, thin-strapped dress, patterned with cute strawberries. It’s snug along his chest with a sweetheart neckline and flairs out from his waist. It hits slightly above his knee, but the sides are weighed down by massive pockets that, of course, Jamie’s already filled with knicknacks. Despite the fact that he’s only been wearing it for about fifteen minutes, the bottom is mud splattered. His grin widens as his partner has finally seen him and he sways his hips back and forth, letting the breeze swish the cotton.

“Whaddya think?” He asks with a seeking smile. “Deirdre made it for me! Can ya believe how well it fits? Look at all the room for shit in these pockets!” He plucks the hammer from Mako’s belt and drops it in the pocket. It technically fits, but it drags the side of the dress down, strap slipping of his shoulder.

Mako chuckles, taking the strap between his thumb and forefinger and sliding it back up. His other hand rests on the small of Jamie’s back, pulling him close against his belly.

_You are distractingly adorable in that dress. I’m so grateful that after everything we’ve gone through, I have you as my husband. I’d be lost without you._

Of course, he doesn’t say any of that. “Cute…” is the only thing that comes out but somehow Jamie gets it. Mako can tell from the glint in his eyes as he beams up at him.

Mako’s hand slides lower, cupping Jamie’s ass through the fabric, which has put on a little meat since their scenic retirement. That’s what a steady diet of homecooked meals and a real home in one place will do for you.

“She made one for you too,” Jamie says, leaning his slight weight back into Mako’s hand. “She’s a little worried about the sizing so she made it fucking huge so she could tailor it to you.”

Mako snorts. “Will I look good in it?”

“It’s light pink with a piggy pattern. Of fuckin’ course ya will.” Jamie says, tiptoeing his fingers up Mako’s chest to stroke his jaw. “You wanna go try it on now?”

“She can wait a couple minutes,” Mako squeezing his ass and nodding towards treehouse.

The grin widens across Jamie’s face and he smooths out his skirt before mounting up the rungs. “Be a gentleman and try not to look up me skirt. Not wearing me knickers.”

Mako follows him up, absolutely not being a gentleman on his way.

The meat pies might have burned a little and Deirdre might have had to wait with her sewing kit, but when the B&B owners return, flushed and in good spirits, all is forgotten and all is well.


	6. You're Okay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The topic this week was "fixed it"! Experimented with a different style here. It's a little weird, but I hope you enjoy!

He bounces on the cock, pleasure-closed eyes slipping into pain-clenched eyes. He’s lucky Hog does all the work, hands lifting and dropping him down again and again. How long have they been doing this? Five minutes? An hour? A year? Time means almost nothing now, less than nothing. It’s clearly not moving forward, not moving back. He’s just a numb hunk of flesh impaled with another hunk of flesh with barely enough slipperiness between them to keep this meat monster functioning. As he half opens his eyes, it’s still impossible to tell where one starts and the other ends. His hand claps down on some soft parts, then some hard parts and who even gives a shit which ones belong to which. 

A pain receptor clicks off in his brain and he clenches suddenly, his mouth dropping open. This pulls the meat creature below him out of his pattern, muscles tensing, chin tilting back. He comes into sharp vision- Mako. A real person made of flesh and bone and lust and protection. A real person with shallow breaths and worried eyes behind dirty lenses. A real person who digs his fingers into the flesh of his back to make another outlet for the pain.

A real person who’s killed for him. How does he deserve that? The greatest gift someone can give. The gift of the life of another. They’ve just given it freely between them, passing it off like holding it too long will burn them. Maybe it has already. Burned them deeper and more profoundly than they can ever walk back. Not that he’s trying to. All he’s trying to do is give back one miniscule piece of gratitude wrapped in lust, seeping with oh god why can’t you be normal.

Hog’s asking something, it’s a question. He can hear and yes, it’s a question. Good, that’s a start. There are only two words, but the parts of speech that make up a proper structure are all there, and it ends with an up-turn of his voice. Two words, this should be easy. Give an answer, any answer.

He’s stopping, fuck fuck fuck. No answer is not the right answer. The flesh threatens to leave him. Not that, no matter what else, not that. He digs his fingers into Hog’s arms as they try to lift him. He remembers now, pieces of conversations past. Hog doesn’t like it when he does this, doesn’t like it when he gets like this, doesn’t let him, won’t let him. His face must be betraying him as the mask twists in concern and then he’s empty. Empty as coming back to a home that’s changed, empty as half-hearted promises, empty as “I can’t give you what you want”. He’s swearing at the man, inventing new ways to say “how dare you stop hurting me”. 

Pressure on his chest, tightness, a hand marked with callouses holding him close. The still-hard cock presses against his leg, throbbing with neglect. He should take care of it, but the hands hold him too close, too tight.

That heartbeat, that steady thrum thrum thrum. How can it be so calm, so measured when the world’s splitting apart at the nexus of their bodies?

His swearing dies away with the erection against his thigh. Hog’s voice… he’s talking, soft and rumbly. The words crackle in and out like a distant radio signal from an ancient station. Still they wash over him and their meaning patches through. 

“...want you to… you can’t just… fix you… how many times have I… you’ll be… be okay… be okay… deep… here...”


	7. Sweet Tooth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This week's prompt was Sweet Tooth! My first journey into Junkfish!

“What’re you looking at?” Mako deadpans at the glowing orange eyes peeking out of the water. 

Jamison’s slimey ears flick in his direction and he scrunches his nose. “Whatcha eatin’? Don’t look like fish.”

“Cause it’s not.” Mako makes a point to stuff the entirety of his eclair in his mouth, licking the cream off his fingers. He immediately regrets the latter choice, the tang of filthy lake monster still clinging to his fingers.

The eel-man emits a painfully high-pitched shriek and Mako claps his hands over his ears.

“What woulda not share?” Scaly fins grip the side of the boat and the lake monster tries to heave himself in. Mako sticks a boot out into Jamison’s chest to block his entry. Another painful screech is partially drown out as the eel-man submerges himself.

“You aren’t getting back on my boat,” Mako warns him when he resurfaces. “You make too much of a mess.”

Jamison flashes a yellow grin, gripping the edge of the boat. “I only make too much of a mess when you make me make a mess.”

“Not true,” Mako mutters as he digs into his cooler for a second donut. Memories flood his mind of the merman clenching, twitching, claws digging into Mako’s arm as he rides out the work of the Mako’s fingers. He takes a big bite of the glazed pastry. Maybe he can sugar coma himself and block all that from his mind…

“Just one bite! Please, Mako! Pleeeeeeeee-”

He’s not cute, but he’s really trying to be, making those horrifying eyes as large as satellite dishes and those thin lips downturned in a pout. For all the sharp points and angles of his face, he can soften it when he’s really trying, making himself look a tiny bit more like the cute stuffed animal versions of him that populate the touristy shops in the surrounding area.

Mako sighs, pulling a piece off. He slowly brings it towards the edge, lowering it down to the opening maw with rows of razor sharp teeth. Jamison’s trying to be careful and not just chomp down on his hand, so he waits patiently for Mako to drop the treat in his mouth. 

Right as he’s about to drop it on the outstretched tongue, Mako pulls the donut back, popping it into his mouth mouth with a self-satisfied chuckle.

Mako should have heeded the local’s tales of the Eelman, known for his eardrum shattering screams, his incredible strength and unpredictability. Perhaps then Mako wouldn’t have found himself in the water with his upended boat and a box of a dozen donuts that he was certainly going to share.


	8. Bad Luck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This week's prompt was "Bad Luck" and I decided to go with a Renaissance Faire AU I've always wanted to write!

“Gimme another fiver,” Jamison says, clawing at Lucio’s belt pouch. “I have three $1’s. I just need $5.”

The smaller man, decked out toe to tip in his authentic 1600s bard garb, shakes his head and opens his pouch.

“Jamison Fawkes, I thought you were going to spend your money on one of those crossbows?”

“That was before this unexpected development,” Jamison says, not even making eye contact as he snatches the bill out. “And this is your money, not mine.”

“Last time though, Jim-Jam,” Hana says, muffled into her turkey leg. “I can only watch you fail at this so many times.”

“Sure, sure, I know what I’m doing now.”

Jamison is cursing himself for his choice of clothing as he’s back in line at the axe-throwing booth for the fourth time. How he had scoffed at Hana and Lucio’s 2.5 hour long process of tying, zipping, cinching their way into their heavy and hot leathers and fabrics. Now he looks like a schmuck next to his two friends while he slouches around in a Goatwhore t-shirt and cargo shorts that barely stay up over his skinny ass. Though maybe Ren Faire workers don’t care if you’re dressed up at all? Maybe they think people like Hana and Lucio are trying to steal their jobs. Sure, he’ll go with that.

“Come on, come on,” he groans as the couple in front of him take a hundred years to decide if they want 5 tosses for $5 or 10 tosses for $8. 

Peering around them, he can only see one attendant waiting for their decision. A bored looking woman with non-period appropriate pink hair, barbarian-esque furs and biceps the size of Jamison’s head. He crosses his arms with a frown and taps his foot impatiently. The couple make their life or death decision and the barbarian woman lines them up in front of their target. She catches Jamison’s eye as he narrows them, trying to stare back into the hut behind the stand. 

“Mako!” She says, leaning back as the first axe hits the edge of the target. “Customer needs help!”

“Thank you,” Jamison mouths, locking his hands together in a prayer as the man he now knows as Mako ducks as he exits the hut.

This is the reason he’s come back to this lame festival attraction four times. This fearsome warrior of a man. He’d be more at home mounting up the world’s largest horse and beating down opponents with a long thick lance (at least that’s how Jamison thinks the joust is supposed to work? He isn’t sure, this is his first Ren Faire). He’s got a full beard and silver ponytail, thick lips and a heavy brow that gives the impression of a permanent scowl. His muscles and fat bulge beneath his simple period garb- a tan peasant shirt, untied down the front to reveal soft and hairy chest. Jamie’s legs had gone to mush the first three times he stepped up to the stand, but now he’s here to prove he can do better.

“Back again?” The man asks with a voice that rockets straight to his crotch. “Think you’ll hit the target this time?”

“‘Course I will, mate!” Jamison says, straightening his crooked spine. “Just had a run of bad luck, is all! Hand me those glorious axes! Did you make these? The craftsmanship is fine, just like yourself!”

A snort bounces from Mako to the pink barbarian and back to his companions, leaning against the railing behind him.

“Didn’t make them,” Mako says, taking the money in exchange for the axes. “Just use what they give us.”

He lays the axes out gently in front of him, but pops up his leg as he props his hands under his chin.

“Anyone ever tell you you look like you were ripped straight out of the medieval era? Like I could see you decapitating people on the battlefield or ruling a kingdom or running a profitable but morally dubious merchant company.”

“Not the last part, but yeah.” Mako points to the target, reminding Jamison that he’s there to throw axes. He holds one axe out in both of his big hands, simulating the proper hold. Jamison does his best to imitate him.

The first one hits with a twunk on the outside of the target. 

“Ah, just that bad luck rearing its head. Lemme give it another-”

Twank. The second sailed even wider, hitting the pole. He throws the next two, one hits low, the other hits high. 

Mako takes a step wider as Jamison readies the next two. They hit the outside of the target. “Ah fuck, aiming’s overrated.”

“Come on, Jim-Jams!” Hana calls him that dreaded nickname. “Pound that target!”

He turns around towards his two friends, axe hanging out of his hand. “You guys don’t know how hard this is! Especially with all these… distractions.”

His friends are about to respond when their eyes go wide and they’re no longer looking at him. Big, beautiful Mako stands next to Jamison, behind the rail. His face is still stern but he extends his hands, hands big enough to cover two of Jamie’s heads.

“Can I touch you?” He says before laying a hand on him.

“Please do.” It comes out way more like a needy whimper than he ever intended, but there’s no taking it back.

Positioning himself behind Jamison, Mako runs his hands down his arms to make sure he has them straight and he rearranges his grip on the axe. There’s the slightest amount of hesitation as he feels the cold metal of his prosthetic. 

“Bring it behind you, leaning back” He steps back, bringing Jamie’s arms over his head. Jamison’s pretty sure he isn’t breathing.

“Then snap it forward, like your arms are forming a line with the target, extending all the way out. Do a practice motion, don’t release it.”

Regrip, up and over, snap it forward. Jamison repeats the motion, finding it more and more natural each time. 

“Good,” the big man purrs behind him. “Don’t overcompensate with your right,” he says, thumb brushing across the metal. “You’ve got plenty of strength there.”

Jamison takes a few practice swings and a deep breath, trying not to think about the musky smell of the man beside him. On the final swing, he loosens his hands and the axe soars through the air. It practically moves in slow motion as all parties stop to follow its path. It sticks with a satisfying wump slightly left of center.

His party members unleash whooping applause and Jamison pumps his fist in the air.

“See?” He says, spinning to point a finger into Mako’s chest. “Told ya it was just bad luck!”

The would-be Viking chieftain gives a warm chuckle that resonates in Jamison’s chest. “Get your last three and I’ll give you my number.”

Jamison’s light eyes widen and he opens his mouth and lets the words vomit.

“Hang on now, I have to admit, maybe that last one was just good luck. My talents might lie elsewhere. Lobbing, tossing, shucking, anything that requires more general area aim. Horseshoes and hand grenades, as they say. Not that I’ve thrown either.” Mako starts to walk away towards his coworker who shakes her head along with him. “I have aim when it counts! 7 outta 10 of Jamison Fawkes former hookups would attest to that!” The man continues to walk back towards the hut. “And Medieval axe-throwing warriors shouldn’t even have phone numbers! You’re breaking my immersion, I should get my money back!”

Hana and Lucio grab their friend by the arm, escorting him towards the joust starting in 5 minutes.

“I’m coming back to throw these last three after the joust! Wait for me, Mako! Wait for me!”

Mako covers his face but his body shudders with the laughter he’s trying to conceal. The pink barbarian flashes Jamison a thumbs up and that’s enough to shut him up and make him sit still for an hour show of big armored men pounding into other big armored men.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me for more Roadrat on Tumblr! [Thyme-Basalt](https://thyme-basalt.tumblr.com/)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Room and Boar-d](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14446659) by [Scrunchles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrunchles/pseuds/Scrunchles)




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